


Blood of the Earth

by ladywolf



Category: From Dusk Till Dawn: The Series
Genre: Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-01-31
Packaged: 2018-03-09 18:42:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3260360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladywolf/pseuds/ladywolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The way you slam your body into mine reminds me<br/>I’m alive, but monsters are always hungry, darling,<br/>and they’re only a few steps behind you,"<br/>—Richard Siken</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood of the Earth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SergeantPixie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SergeantPixie/gifts).



> I use "mother" very loosely in this, meaning it could be her mother, or someone she saw as a mother figure.

 

 

_What day is it?_ Was the only thing that burned in her mind after damnation; since then time was lost. Every moment blurred into night, shadow, and death. How long had she been here? _How long?_ Santanico had asked the guards for the date, more than a few times, but it always resulted the same. They came with bodies and left with no words.  _Time to kill._

It was not something she wanted, to take the lives of so many without reason, as if it were normal. However the gods made a monster of Santanico, called on her to serve. Death was her burden and she hated it—the ravager inside—so she stopped.  She refused the blood of lambs, innocent people who had been lost or taken from their lives to slaughter. No more. She let them escape; attack the guards so they could get away. Santanico had barely become sluggish, by the time Narciso decided to pay a visit.

 

 

"What do you think you're doing?" he asked.

Santanico was slumped against her altar; reviving herself to face him. "What day is it?" she replied and he laughed.

"What does it matter to you? You are stuck here for eternity." She remained silent and as solid as living marble. "¿Eres necia?" She knew her captors were not happy that their precious Santanico was being disobedient; and she knew Narciso had come to fix it. What would the Lord do to him if he let her behave this way? She had nothing to lose and he hated her for it. "It's February 15th."

She didn't understand, but Santanico didn't care either. What good was a foreigner's tongue? Narciso turned to exit—pride intact—but before he stepped through the door he whispered, "o Ollin ozomahtli acatl."

He has not visited since.

 

* * *

 

_Ollin ozomahtli acatl_ , the eighth day of the third month of the year. It was a day of celebration, to rejoice and show thanks for what the gods have done and will do. Many days required sacrifice yes, but today was different, it was a day to serve the gods with the body's prayer. What did it matter now? There was no one left to keep up the sacred traditions. Not that Santanico ever cared for the gods, she never gave them much thought, but she loved the dance. A parade of everyone in special adornments; she and her mother too, wore headdresses of vibrant feathers that could reach the sky. A show of her people in unison, answering the drums with spins and jumps of praise, in surrender to the gods.

All that prayer and for what? The gods were not deserving of worship in their name, the wicked monsters that they were. Yet the memory of the drums was deafening, roaring inside and taking her whole. How could she forget the dance? The rhythm begged her to move; to spring from the earth and touch the sky, to become thunder and rain. In that moment, Santanico thought she could fly between heaven and earth, but as she spun around, her chains tripped her up. She fell to the ground a prisoner of the gods, a servant forsaken to the shadows. Lying there, Santanico turned over and beat the floor with clutched fists; she would not be held captive in her temple. She stood up again, taking her steps slow and with purpose as a new peace passed over her. It welcomed her to bathe in the light of the moon and dance in the river; taught her to settle in the earth and rise up again. If the soul chooses it's god, then she would chose herself.

 

* * *

 

 

The bodies were scarce now, for this was the wrath of her masters. When they did come, they were wounded, falling to her like birds without wings. No amount of discipline could be applied here; she being too numb and too desperate for their life. This rapacious, incurable need for flesh was her reminder of who had control. As they struggled against her bite, their souls flowed through her, and by their blood she could see the places they'd been. All the world, the storms that raged between ocean and sky, the people in strange dress, the tremendous structures, and unusual creatures; now embedded in her veins. Santanico too, saw their years of joy, adventure, pain, lies, love, and in an instant they were gone; taken away to be consumed again.

This was the only way to keep track of days now; the only way time was not lost.


End file.
